Sweet Crimson
by MochaCocaFan
Summary: You really are my ecstasy, my real-life fantasy...--Hidan has a sacrifice daily, but what about it does he enjoy so deeply?--


**A/N: Hey people! I'm on a writing spree. Sorry if it's inconvenient for me to not update for months and then suddenly churn out 5 new stories in quick succesion. But I digress. Anyways, I have shifted my obsessive qualities towards Akatsuki now, and as well as this, I'm working on seven (yeah, that's right people, _seven_) fics: two Itachi centrics, called _Foolish Otouto_ and _Stolen Eyes_, a Konan-centric called _God's Angel_, a compainion to the upcoming _God's Angel _called _You're Beautiful, _a Kisame-centric called _Freak_, a Sasori oneshot called _Puppeteer_, and a Deidara introspective called _Un_. Do read once I finish and let me get your opinions! On with the story!**

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It was so _pretty_. Bright, bright crimson liquid flowing from her neck. It gleamed and glittered like her necklace that Kakuzu (the money-obsessed bastard) had taken. It shone. It shined. It smelled.

But most of all, it gushed.

And as the blood flowed fluidly, Hidan idly thought of the woman whos neck was steadily draining itself of scarlet grace. She had not been a difficult one to lure into the darkenmost alleyway he was currently standing in, gazing listlessly at the cadaver resting (or was it rest, if she was dead?) on the ground now coated with various bodily substances, including entrails, brains, eyeballs, ahem, _lady parts_, and of course, the glorious, ecstasy-inducing blood.

Well, ecstasy-inducing for bloodthirsty crazed maniacs such as Hidan.

Now that the sacrifice of the night (Kami-sama demanded at least one a night) was over and done with, he could ponder. And Hidan _liked_ pondering. It cleared his mind and lightened the weight of unanswered questions lurking in the depths of his twisted, bloodstained mind, along with traumatic memories of a lonely, silent childhood erratically punctuated by brief waves of euphoria caused by unavoidable slaughter as a genin.

Questions such as: What was his favorite part of the daily sacrifice?

The sacrifice, of course, was meant to be meaningful. It was meant to honor his Kami-sama, by beautiful destruction and the joy that always, always, without fail, followed, followed like a beaten, worn, exhausted puppy. There were three crucial parts. Firstly, the procuring of an honored sacrifice (and it was an honor. Hidan did not sacrifice trash. He did not kill trash. He _tortured_ trash. There was a difference) and then the actual killing. It had to be done as slowly and painfully as possible. Then there was the defamation of the corpse, the maiming of the cadaver, the mutilation of the dead hunk of random chemical combinations.

So which part was the most fun?

Well, certainly not the luring of the prey. Dear God, he hated the way he had to smile, be charming, be attractive, play on the stupidity of normal people. It reminded him of the idiocies of the world far too much, and as such he rather enjoyed ridding the world of such utter morons afterwards.

The actual killing wasn't always slow and painful. Sure, he'd done his fair share (and quite a bit more too) of gouging out eyes with chopsticks (he couldn't eat for a week afterwards; Hidan kept seeing the huge bloodied organs everytime he picked up the refined pieces of wood) and of gutting people (like flopping oversized gagged fish) with butter knives and slicing throats slowly with rusty pieces of broken glass and of simply tying up his sacrifices and watching them bleed to death, staring in rapture at the way blood spurted from the arteries (he would've compared them to a hose gushing red water if he had any clue what a hose was) but occasionally, annoyingly, there was a pressing need to kill and just _get the hell away_.

So perhaps it wasn't the killing. Perhaps it wasn't the luring. And it probably wasn't the mutilation of the corpse- corpses don't bleed, don't induce the craved ecstasy he longed for every day, every _second_- so it was the simple blood.

Hidan smiles as his musings come to an end, and he is filled with the crashing euphoria that tumbles over the edge of control, makes his face twist with elation and his eyes gaze with utter, utter joy. And he pickes up his three-pronged scythe and douses the now-flaming cadaver with a liquid of some indeterminable sort and then makes quick work of paper tags and very, _very_ fast legs.


End file.
